


a bloodless coup

by Ark



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Casual Sex, First Time, M/M, Marathon Sex, One Shot, Oral Sex, PWP, Pining, Rough Sex, Wall Sex, all of the sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:56:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: If Q is being truthful with himself, he's expected this for a while. Near everyone who's anyone has had a turn with James Bond. He imagines it's a bit like an initiation, the final stamp of welcome into the MI6 fold.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 123
Kudos: 924





	a bloodless coup

**Author's Note:**

> idk friends i watched a bunch of james bond movies and now i'm here. thanks to [eremji](https://eremji.tumblr.com/) for hand-holding and super-spying.

The first time is after a mission. Bond has been debriefed and sent to return the charred remains of Q's latest invention for analysis. It's after any reasonable hours, and Q is alone when Bond comes into the lab.

The mission was a roaring success, which means that Bond's adrenaline is up. He apologizes charmingly for destroying three months of Q's work in one explosive swoop. When missions go poorly, Bond can be tight-lipped and closed-off, but those blue eyes are brighter than ever, and the energy thrumming through his unstoppable body is scarcely contained.

When he crowds Q against the wall, Q lets him. He isn't surprised. Bond has a well-established predilection for warm bodies, and Q's is the closest one at hand. If Q is being truthful with himself, he's expected this for a while, and been a trifle put-out that it hadn't happened sooner. Near everyone who's anyone has had a turn with James Bond. He imagines it's a bit like an initiation, the final stamp of welcome into the MI6 fold. 

What he doesn't expect is how good it is.

Oh, Q's imagined it would be _good_. Bond is good at damned near everything, and he's an expert lover as he's an expert-level pilot and an expert-level marksman, of course it would be _good_. But there's good and then there's _this_.

Bond tells him to glitch out any cameras that might be watching, and then, when that's done, he hauls Q back against the wall. He has Q right there, pressed to the exposed brick, strips him of his shoes and trousers and leaves everything else on, like he can't wait the amount of time it will take to pull off a jumper. Maybe he wants to keep Q in the jumper. 

Q isn't clear on details, since his mind fills with white noise the moment Bond hitches up one of his legs and works two vastly capable fingers inside him. Bond has produced a packet of lube from his suit-pocket, which means he planned this to some extent, which is—Q doesn't know what it is, because it's been some time for him, but Bond already has two fingers sunk deep and he's picked Q like a lock. Q's head falls back against the brick, and Bond's mouth is just _devouring_ his neck in a way he didn't know necks could or should be devoured. 

Q would be ashamed of the needful sounds emerging from him, if he had any kind of grasp on coherency or shame at the moment, or any kind of grasp on anything at all, really.

They don't speak, not at first, they only _do_ , and it's like being whirled in a dance, all instinct, no conscious thought. Bond opens him up just enough, and then he undoes his own trousers. He doesn't undress, doesn't step out of that formerly pristine suit, just frees his cock—God, Bond's _cock_ , it's long and thick and _perfect_ , no wonder he's so eager to use it—and he lifts Q up against the wall as though he weighs nothing. It's a shock, leaving the ground, but far more shocking is Bond's slick cock testing his rim and then with one smooth thrust James Bond is inside him and it's too fucking good to be believed.

A distant, muted voice in Q's head chastises him for taking Bond bare, but Q tells it to sod right off—he's run Bond's medicals himself and there's nothing to be caught save perhaps an attachment to something that Q cannot keep. But Q can't think about that now, not now as Bond starts to fuck him, holding him pinned to the wall. Q wraps his legs around Bond's waist as Bond hits the exact right angle on his first try, electrifying Q's entire body. 

Q finds his voice, though he doesn't mean to. "Please," he says, and he doesn't know what he's asking for, except that Bond is giving it to him. " _Please_."

Bond fucks him hard after that, his hips well-oiled pistons, his arms around Q solid as steel. Q understands then why Bond has left a trail of empty beds and twisted sheets scattered around the globe. Bond's after his own pleasure, his own gratification, surely that, but he seems to have the uncanny ability to read his partner down to sinew and bone. He knows exactly what to do to Q, what feels best, what feels better than any kind of sexual act has any goddamn right to. 

Bond's in lead position, but it's an astonishing give-and-take, Bond seeming to like giving as much as he takes in return. He adjusts his angle of approach at the smallest sign from Q, until the only signs from Q signify desperation for more. When Bond licks his way to the tender spot behind Q's ear without being told, Q nearly breaks apart before they've properly begun. Bond's confidence is earned, and it's breathtaking. And then Q understands why people have gone to Bond's bed, or tried to stay there, even under risk of almost certain death, because it's fucking _worth_ it.

Q gets a hand around his own cock—Christ, he's never been this hard in his _life_ —and that's when Bond speaks for the first time since entering him. His voice is a low growl that trails like velvet down Q's spine.

"No," says Bond. Q lets go before the word is even finished. "I'm going to make you come on my cock. Only my cock."

Q whimpers as Bond thrusts so far he can feel it in his _teeth_. "Only your cock," he manages to repeat in agreement. Some genius-level intellect. He's reduced to barely being able to parrot back a phrase. 

"Good boy," Bond says into his neck, and Q nearly comes from that alone, just that. 

Bond knows that, can sense it, taste it, because a little smile flickers on his lips and then he slows down, leaving Q halfway over the edge and gasping. Bond sets his tongue and teeth to Q's ear, and Q says, "God, oh dear _God_ ," as Bond reveals that he also knows the most exceptional rhythm, the precise speed and drive, knows just how to thrust his cock into Q to set Q's entire _being_ alight, and by the end Q is panting and twisting and begging, and he's unraveling at the seams.

Everything feels hot and wet, their bodies overheated and running with sweat beneath their layers—Jesus, Bond still has his suit jacket and shirt and tie on—and the wool of Q's jumper would be heavy on his overheated skin if he had time to process it. But he doesn't, because the slide of Bond's cock inside him is also hot and wet, the slick sound of it in Q's ears propelling him toward madness. Q has never been fucked like this, not like this, pinned high on the wall like an obscene painting. Though Bond keeps them up, Q keeps them steady with his legs cinched so close around Bond's waist that his muscles tremble with the effort. Too late he realizes he's shaking all over.

He's full-up with Bond's cock and the heady musk smell of him. He has to know what Bond tastes like, has to know, needs to catalogue it; and so the next time Bond stops mouthing at his neck and looks into his eyes instead, Q returns the favor. He lets his lips find and trace the pulse-point on Bond's neck, feels the drum of Bond's heartbeat beneath his tongue. He tastes salt from sweat and a rich afternote that suggests smoke—only too appropriate, Q thinks wildly, for a man so adept at detonation. He almost laughs, but as soon as Q's tongue touches Bond's skin, Bond increases his pace, and the sound Q makes becomes a gasp as Bond presses deep. 

" _Now_ ," Bond orders, and Q almost sobs as he comes on command, which shouldn't even be _possible_ , biologically speaking. But like everything else that's impossible about James Bond, he makes this happen also, and Q goes tight around Bond's cock and comes harder than he ever has, _ever_ , spilling messily between their bodies. 

The jumper is ruined, there's no hope for it, nor for Q's recovery, because he's ruined also, just utterly destroyed, no one will _ever_ fuck him like this again. He'll spend the rest of his solitary life chasing the memory of how this feels, how his body is commandeered and illuminated by Bond, how pleasure can be so acute that it sinks its teeth into his fucking _soul_ and tears it apart.

Nothing, _nothing_ will ever be like how this feels, or how Bond watches him with those blue eyes before coming with him. He fills Q up with so much heat that Q has the unhinged thought that Bond will make him explode like he's wont to blow everything else up. 

Bond's groan of pleasure strikes Q like an aftershock, quakes through him, and Q should have left at least one camera on so that he could replay this, hear that sound on repeat. He could live on that sound for nourishment.

He's dizzy on his feet when Bond pulls out and lets him down, and he sways, so Bond steadies him with one hand. Now that Q can feel ashamed again, he's ashamed not of what they've done but of his weak knees, the way his hands fumble as he dresses and tries for composure. 

Bond fastens his trousers and then he's back to looking pristine again, not a hair out of place. The only change in him is that his energy is becalmed, the storm-tossed sea gone glassy. Q will not think about how he can feel Bond's seed hot and wet on his thighs and still _dripping_ from him.

Q reaches out and adjusts a stack of files on his desk thirty degrees to the right. "Very good, 007," he says, as though they've had a normal exchange of conversation, as though anything about their lives could ever be normal. "Will that be all?"

Bond smiles at him like a blood-glutted shark, like he approves of Q's tact. "Yes. Thank you, Quartermaster." 

Q makes it one minute fifty-eight seconds after Bond's departure before his legs give out, and he sits down right there on the floor. It was supposed to be good, he always thought it would be _good_ , but it wasn't supposed to be _that_. That was a frame of reference that never existed for him before.

He feels the ache from how hard and deep Bond fucked him for the rest of the week. Absolutely nothing changes between them, except that the next time Bond sets out on a mission with one of Q's precious projects surely set to detonate, Bond winks at him—at least Q thinks he does. 

It may have been a trick of the light playing off of Bond's eyes, or a trick of Q's mind, which can't forget, though sometimes he tries.

* * *

The second time it happens, Q comes home on a Friday with takeaway and the intention to settle in with a good old-fashioned book for the evening, and James Bond is in his kitchen. 

Bond is sitting at his kitchen table in the dark. Q turns on the light and only just manages to swallow down an undignified yelp. What he does do is drop the takeaway. 

He doesn't bend to pick it up, because of the way that Bond stares at him. It's less shark and all hawk now, like Bond has half a mind to rake Q with his claws. Q stands still.

Bond is looking about as shite as James Bond can look, burned at the edges—literally, his jacket and cuffs are scorched—and blood-splattered, though most of it seems like it's not his. There is blood under his fingernails and sallow bags under his eyes, and a blue-purple bruise that can only be painful is spread like ink across one cheek.

Bond isn't set to return from his mission for two days, and the check-in yesterday morning had been all-clear. 

Q clears his throat. "The ambassador and her family?"

"Dead," says Bond shortly. That accounts for some of the smoldering wreckage in his stare.

"Ah," says Q, gentler now.

"It went to hell," says Bond. And then, a breath later: "I was too late." Unsaid is _I tried_ ; unsaid is _I failed_ , unspeakable words.

"Ah," says Q. "You should, ah, perhaps, report to—"

Bond stands, and it takes all of Q's training not to step back. No, that's wrong, his training would have said that stepping back was the more prudent thing. Q stands in place by dint of stubbornness alone. Stubbornness, and the fact that a rabbit under the eye of a hawk has a better chance if it doesn't move.

"I'm aware of the protocol," Bond snaps. He clears the table. Then he's occupying all of Q's personal space, taking up the air. It's no matter, because Q isn't breathing much anyway.

"Well," Q says. 

"I want to fuck you," Bond says. He says the word _fuck_ the way he wields a weapon, with deadly accuracy. Q feels it like a blow.

"All right," says Q, though of course he should be saying anything else, absolutely anything else. "Yes." No, that's wrong also.

"I won't be careful," Bond says. 

It's a warning—the only one that Q will receive, he thinks, his last out. He can't say anything to that. What's there to say? All he can do, all he does, is nod.

Bond was not exaggerating. Bond is not typically in the habit of exaggerating. He gets Q into the bedroom, and then he pushes him down onto the bed. When Q's clothes don't cooperate in their removal, Bond tears at buttons, snaps seams. Everywhere he makes Q bare with his hands, his mouth follows, his mouth and his teeth.

He's voracious, a whirlwind starved of debris, so he breaks Q down into pieces and pulls Q into his vortex. Bond gets his mouth around Q's cock and sucks him off, but that only seems to make him hungrier. He swallows all that Q can give him and moves on to the next course. Q is limp and sweat-soaked against the sheets, already flattened by the force of Bond's desire, when Bond kneels between his legs and yanks them further apart. Then Bond is—Bond is—

—that's James Bond's _tongue_ inside him, insistent as any fingers or cock, and when Q moans like a wounded thing, Bond goes deeper. He makes a meal out of Q for the better part of an hour—it's an hour or longer, Q knows because sometimes when his vision clears, he's able to see the bedside clock—and Bond doesn't let up, not even for a moment. By the time Bond raises his head again, he's gotten Q so wet and open from his mouth alone that Q thinks he could be fucked just like this. 

Q's gone past moans now, and has even wept once; he's come twice, and he knows with a certainty that's almost terrifying that Bond intends somehow to make him come again.

Bond almost breaks his bedside table with the force of tugging out the drawer, searching after lube, and Q thanks a pantheon of deities that there's a bottle there. It's old and mostly unused—his job is more than time-consuming, his life isn't _normal_ —but it's lube, and it's slick, and it goes inside him and on Bond's perfect cock. 

Bond flips him and hauls Q to his hands and knees, and Q's just able to stay there long enough for Bond to shove that perfect cock deep, all the way in. Then Q's arms give out and he presses his face into the mattress, mouth open in a noiseless wail. Bond keeps hold of his hips with a grip that will leave bruises for days or maybe longer. Q thinks Bond's fingertips are imprinting on his bones.

Q pleads nonsense words, because he's so over-sensitized now, already so wrung out and well-used, that Bond's punishing thrusts feel half-exquisite, half a kind of exquisite agony. This time, Bond fucks him like he fights, all relentless forward momentum, no quarter given. He slams into Q over and over again, over and over and over and over, and again, again, again. 

He pounds Q with his cock as though he thinks that if he can only fuck Q hard enough, fast enough, time will reverse and he'll have a second chance to make right what went wrong. Or perhaps he's trying to escape from the timestream entirely, defying both physics and biology, pushing their bodies past the limits until nothing else matters, like there _is_ nothing else save Bond's cock inside him and beyond that, a ceaseless void.

Dimly Q becomes aware of Bond's weight on his back, Bond draped over him, Bond's mouth fastened on the softest part of Q's neck, Bond's hand stroking Q's spent cock.

"I can't," Q whispers, "I _can't_ ," but Bond keeps fucking him, keeps fisting Q's cock. Bond doesn't let up, he won't retreat for even the length of a breath, and though it's biologically improbable, at length he drives a third orgasm out of Q's shuddering body. 

There isn't much left to speak of, but the broken pieces of Q quiver underneath Bond, and pleasure flashes through him like a knife, sharp and bright. The dark room swims, and he thinks he loses consciousness a moment, his eyes rolling back in his head; he knows that happens because the room gets even darker, becomes the blackest black.

He blinks again, and they're lying on their sides, and Bond is still fucking him. One of Bond’s hands is wrapped around Q's throat like a promise. 

Bond fucks him a good while longer—the numbers on the clock spin out, run forwards and back. But when Bond's cock pulses deep at last and he spills into Q, he still isn't done. He slides down between Q's legs and licks Q clean, starting with Q's own spills across his belly, and ending with his reclaiming every last drop he left inside Q. It's the filthiest thing that's happened in the history of _time_ , but they're outside of time anyway. 

Q doesn't remember how to groan, that's too complex an undertaking, and so his breath just escapes in little desperate pants. Only once Q is clean again, once Bond has removed all the evidence, does Bond lie still. He isn't even breathing fast. If Q had his tools to measure he thinks that Bond's heartbeat would be steady on.

Q doesn't fall asleep so much as sleep falls on him. If he has dreams that night—or morning, it's nearly dawn—they don't penetrate the fugue state of his brain and his demolished body. He thinks that Bond rests beside him. That's enough to think about.

* * *

In the morning, Q is alone in bed, hardly a surprise. His body feels like an exposed nerve. Everywhere is tender to the touch. He can smell sex on him, and the heady musk that is only Bond's, unerasable evidence of what transpired. 

Otherwise Q would be forced to hypothesize it’s far more likely he was targeted with some kind of hallucinogen, or was crushed by falling masonry, or any number of scenarios that could occur with greater probability than 007 seeking him out and trusting him enough to fuck out his failure for _hours_. 

A chance observer would not believe it, but Bond had been the vulnerable one, the one who came wanting. His soft underbelly exposed, though nothing about him was particularly _soft_ , granted. But Q might have slid the hunting knife affixed to the bedframe between Bond's ribs at half a dozen junctures, and succeeded. Bond wouldn't have even tried to stop him. 

A strange knowledge, that. And a move more dangerous for Bond than any leap from a great height. _I won't be careful._ Bond meant that for himself as much as Q. 

Q is so accustomed to wanting what he shouldn't that it hadn't felt strange to accommodate such a need in someone else. In Bond, though? Had it truly happened like that? For hours and hours. Hours and hours and—

—and it _is_ a surprise when Bond strolls back into his bedroom with a laden breakfast-tray. For one, Q is quite certain he doesn't _own_ a breakfast tray. Or eggs. Or tomatoes. Or toast. Or—

James Bond is still in his flat. Rather, he's showered and dressed in his least-scorched layers, scrubbed clean and neat again and smelling incongruously of Q's overpriced shampoo. There is no blood left under his rounded nails, and the bruise is already fading from his cheek. He's always healed quickly. 

He also appears to have run down to the shop, purchased grocery items and possibly a _tray_ , and now there's a full, proper English breakfast alongside a steaming cup of Earl Grey and an orange juice. Bond sets the tray beside Q on the bed, and then he sits himself down on Q's desk chair.

A virulent hallucinogen, perhaps some sort of attack designed to compromise MI6 staff in their homes. That's what makes the most sense. Q blinks at Bond, and then he drinks some orange juice, because his throat is parched, and that seems the safest thing to try. It tastes of oranges, freshly squeezed. It tastes real.

Q swallows down juice, swallows down too many things he mustn't say. He recalibrates, refocuses. There's an awful lot on the mystery tray—baked beans, bacon, sausage, tomatoes, mushrooms, fried eggs, black pudding, it's really quite excessive—and James Bond is sitting at his desk in his bedroom. The desk where Q sits and works alone, far into the night, night after night. "Would you like some?"

"I've already eaten," says Bond. It isn’t clear if he means food.

Q ignores this. He scoops a spoonful of beans onto toast, and layers egg on after that. He takes a bite, and it's divine, just extraordinary, a culinary breakfast masterpiece. The roasted tomato is a revelation. He finds that he's famished. He remembers about dropping the takeaway.

Bond watches him clean the plate. Maybe it's a trick of the light, but Q thinks he sees the sides of Bond's mouth twitch with something like satisfaction. Something James Bond can approximate to that.

When he's finished, Bond gets up again, transfers the tray to the desk, and perches on the edge of the bed. He sits ramrod-straight, at attention. More eagle than hawk now. Q is naked under a thin sheet with Bond sitting on his bed, but his body is also covered in so many marks left by Bond that it's not the strangest thing to have happened to him recently by a mile.

Q tells himself that it's the scientist in him that is curious, that wants to decipher why Bond is still here. Bond's arrival and activity was one thing—understandable, if illogical, though Bond is rarely bounded by logic. His continued presence, English breakfast—that's what doesn't track.

Q looks at him, and Bond says, "I shouldn't have."

Ah. Yes, he expected this. Bond already regrets it, which makes more sense. Q looks away from him. "It's quite all right."

"Is it?" Bond tilts his head.

"Still in one piece," says Q.

"Not for lack of trying," Bond says, and Q almost smiles when he does. When Q doesn't smile, Bond's goes flat. "I hurt you."

Q's eyes flick down, examine the Bond-shaped bruises around his wrists. Flick up, catch and hold Bond's gaze again. He must say anything else, absolutely anything else, but what he says is, "I wanted you to." 

A chemical reaction, a combustion between them. Remarkably, Bond is the one to glance away this time.

"I'd best be going," Bond says.

"Yes," says Q.

Bond doesn't go. 

Q settles back against his pillow. This is his bedroom. He might as well be comfortable during the most bizarre conversation in his extremely not-normal life.

"It would appear that you are still here," Q observes.

"I want to fuck you," Bond says.

"You can't possibly," Q says. They were at it for _hours_. Hours and hours, over and over again. If he flushes red, Bond shows no reaction.

"All the time," Bond appends. 

Q's breath catches. "How inconvenient."

"Quite," says Bond.

"You could fuck anyone you like," Q points out, he'd like to think, somewhat practically. His heart is thudding against his ribcage, but Bond can't know that. Can he? Of course he can. Bond can read body language with a blindfold on and earplugs in, while drunk, and possibly also underwater. Is trained to do precisely that. 

"Yes," Bond agrees. The lack of false modesty is appreciated. The further implications of the statement are appreciated.

Q works his jaw. At length he says, "Very good, 007. Will that be all?"

"No," says Bond. 

He's across the bed faster than can be accounted, straddles Q's hips. Leans down and kisses him for the first time. Empires have fallen and world orders upended because of the way that James Bond can kiss. The slide of his tongue has brought down dictators. His teeth closing on a lower lip presage civil unrest. 

Now Q knows why. In his heart there is a riot.

Then Q kisses him back. The revolution comes about peaceably. The status quo changes, only with somewhat less fiery death this go-round.

The third time is slow, very slow, and it happens as soon as Bond strips free of his clothes. Q aches all over, is past raw, but oh, how he _wants_. How he's _wanted_.

Bond eases into him, kissing his mouth. His hands are tangled up in Q's hair on purpose, teasing its impertinent length. He moves inside Q like he means to stay there. He does.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com) and also on [twitter](http://twitter.com/et_ark) where i am probably tweeting about making charles dickens characters kiss each other thank you for your time


End file.
